


Rückprall

by maggiemae815



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiemae815/pseuds/maggiemae815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year later, just as John's letting go and possibly finding a new kind of happiness, everyone's favorite consulting detective rises from his fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Repair

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock (BBC) and all rights belong to Gatiss and Moffat and I make nor do I desire a profit off of this. I do it for JohnLock.
> 
> Rückprall is German for rebound, like a ball rebounding. I was sniffing around for German words in relation to Reichenbach and this one just kind of struck me. Anyway, this is my first Sherlock fic and I hope you enjoy it. Any constructive criticism is welcome!
> 
> Non-beta'd (and it's 5:20 am) so mistakes are all mine.  
> Rating may possibly change in the next chapter.  
> Okay, on with the show.

“Wanna hear another reason I know you didn’t lie,” John began, raking his shaking left hand through his hair. The tremors were back along with the limp, so his right was busy punishing the cane with a death grip.

“It’s the times you were wrong. Like thinking Harry was my brother, or that the drug was in the sugar. And I’ll believe none of that crap that you were faking being wrong, because no one could fake the look the indignity you get when you get when your mistake is pointed out. So there you have it. Fact, what is it now, number two hundred and forty seven? See, I told you I’d come up with more than your infernal tobacco ash.”

With that he turned around and headed back to an empty flat, morosely basking in the pleasure of finally winning an argument with Sherlock; the same one he’d been having with the silent headstone for a year now.

 

* * *

 

A little over a month after his final visit to the final resting place of the man who changed John’s life, he found himself exactly where he was before meeting the enigmatic whirlwind that had become his flat mate.

Standing in a therapist’s office gave John the worst sense of déjà vu, as if he was trapped in some horrible cycle and whoever next came to mean something to him would evaporate as instantly as the last.

That fleeting, panicked thought was chased away by many more years of flirting experience (read: habit) when he met _her_.

 

* * *

 

Deciding a nice cup of tea at the café down the street sounded better than an appointment with the therapist he’d seen in another life, so John found himself sitting outside sipping hesitantly from an oversized fuschia mug.

“Wasn’t I right?” Mary insisted after John went for a second sip.

“S’ not bad,” John hedged with a smirk.

“I come here after every session. Sit here and people watch, reminding myself over and over that the world keeps spinning.”

John nodded slowly, eyes darting to the tremor in his left hand even as he smiled lightly, forcing his attention away from his treasonous limb. “That’s a pretty good attitude to have about it. How long ago did your sister pass away?”

“It was eight months ago just yesterday. You wouldn’t have been saying the same thing about my attitude even two months ago but I started going to the support group and if nothing else, it keeps me busy. Helps me organize my thoughts. If you don’t mind me asking… who did you lose?” Her hand reached out briefly to squeeze John’s forearm as she asked the question.

“That obvious, am I?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Er, do you remember reading in the papers about a year ago about the, uh, death of a ‘fake genius’?”

“Oh that man, something Holmes, right?” She gave him an empathetic frown, squeezing his arm again before sliding her hand to meet his and lightly holding his fingers.

“Sherlock; Sherlock Holmes. I’ll tell you now, he was the smartest man I’ve ever encountered. Don’t believe everything you read.” She smiled indulgently and John could tell she was willing to accept John’s word as the truth. “He was also the best friend I’d ever had. Kind of woke me up to life again after the war.” John couldn’t understand why those words had come out. He’d only ever said them to a headstone, and that certainly hadn’t been listening.

Mary seemed unfazed by the revelation, which only reminded John of how little she knew of him; how she had no preconception of his friendship with Sherlock. It felt refreshing.

“I remember that story; something about a madman who wasn’t, Sherlock supposedly hiring him to commit those crimes?” At John’s wince, she backpedaled. “Sorry. I’m just… very sorry for your loss. You seem to hold him in high regard.”

“He was a great man,” John said, echoing Lestrade’s words. He brought the cup to his lips, trying to force down the knot that had appeared in his throat.

“What you said, about him waking you up; it’s been a bit of the opposite with my sister.” John nodded, glad for the change of subject.

“How so?”

“I’d been so closed off from everyone and everything for so long, my sister included, but when she passed it was as if the world shifted into Technicolor and it was overwhelming. Like being oxygen deprived for so long that the first few breathes are dizzying. When she… passed away, it shocked me back to life. How ironic is that?”

It was John who reached a hand over this time, ignoring the slight panic he felt at how comfortable he felt around this woman already. When he gripped her hand her eyes shot up to met his and John was reminded of the camaraderie he’d experienced among the men with whom he’d served.

“What happened to your sister, Mary?”

“Anna had always been more adventurous and outgoing than I was when we were growing up, and when it started spilling into adulthood it became a wedge between us. Then she started seeing this bastard of a man, loved and trusted him, until the day he drove drunk and got them both killed.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry –“

“We hadn’t spoken in two and a half years, John. I was selfish and horrible and I probably still might be because I find myself thinking maybe I’m glad we hadn’t been so close. Maybe that would have hurt more.”

“The last time I spoke to Sherlock I accused him of being a heartless dick, completely devoid of emotions. Basically what everyone his entire life had told him, even though I know it isn’t true.”

They both had tears in their eyes, but when their eyes met they laughed. They looked at each other incredulously, and then laughed a bit more until their shiny eyes were from more than mourning.

“Look at the pair of us,” John said deprecatingly, but with a soft edge, before reaching for his tea again.

He didn’t even care that it had gone cold.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks to the day that he met Mary and John finds himself at Sherlock’s headstone for what he swears is the last damn time. And that’s when he hears it.

“Thought you’d given up on me.”

John’s entire body went still, and for a few seconds he didn’t even breath until he felt the adrenaline surge, cane dropped and hands clenching into fists as he spun around, sucking in a gulp of air his lungs for the onslaught of words he felt coming.

But of course, Sherlock beat him to the punch.

“Moriarty had a sniper trained on you; had an assassin with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, probably even had one near Mycroft. He told me if I didn’t jump you would all die. But since I’m even more brilliant than anyone, including Moriarty, can fathom, I had made plans in case something of that nature occurred, and it was really no harm, no foul. Little spider blew his own brains out so, sadly, he’ll never know he’s been outsmarted. Of course the word was still out for your heads on silver platters, the rumors of that silly _key_ , so I couldn’t just come right out and tell anyone who might still be in danger that I was alive. Plus there was the matter of scrounging up enough information to disprove everything Moriarty had that woman print. I maybe even be able to sue her for libel. Didn’t think it would take me quite so long to shut down Moriarty’s underground and get the information, but here I am. If you still want to take a swing, I must warn you, I’ve been doing lifts.”

John is still standing, muscles taut, and his breath leaving him in shaky spurts, completely at a loss. For a moment he just repeats Sherlock’s words.

“A sniper… no HARM… that _bloody_ key…”

Sherlock watched him splutter but it seems he’s run out of things to say, only looking at John solemnly as he waits for him to find his footing. John takes the blessed moment of silence (but it wasn’t blessed really, because he hadn’t heard that deep, steady voice in a YEAR) to wrangle his thoughts.

“And you couldn’t left some sort of clue? Not for anyone?” The adrenaline seemed to leave him with the words and he felt himself slump, only staying up through sheer force of will.

“Molly knew.”

Sherlock said it quietly but succinctly, yet if John wasn’t mistaken he sounded… apologetic.

“ _Molly Hooper_ knew. Well, no wonder she’s been avoiding me the way she has. I thought it was just because she’s so mad about you. Every time I’ve seen her she looks at me and starts crying.”

“Yes, Molly assisted me in the faked suicide,” Sherlock ignored John’s wince and forged on, “and though she may not have been as subtle as I’d prefer, I knew she would keep it to herself. She knew what was at stake.”

John really needed something to lean on so he moved over to Sherlock’s headstone, SHERLOCK’S HEADSTONE, as he **looked at Sherlock** and allowed himself to take in the whole scene.

“I need some tea.”

 

* * *

 

John’s skin was crawling by the time they reached 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s eyes on him, deducing who knew what, only making it that much worse.

“John –“

“Just give me a bit, yeah?” John ground out.

Twenty minutes and two cups of tea later, yet John’s emotions were still ebbing and flowing from far too polar extremes for him to speak, as of yet. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

_‘The day I buried you I asked this of you; Did you notice I kept up your room, just in case; How the bloody hell is it that **Molly Hooper** knew and I couldn’t?’_

Then there was, of course, everything else he’d said over the year to the headstone. It was all just so much. But he _owed_ it to Sherlock. Owed him so, so very much.

“What did you say?”

John startled at Sherlock’s proximity, sloshing his lukewarm tea when he was met with Sherlock kneeling in front of him, face bloodless, eyes almost as wild as the night he’d ‘seen’ the hound.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Just now, you said, ‘I owe you’. Why?”

The wild look disappeared for a moment, replaced by doubt, before Sherlock stood up, arms crossed, taking a moment to school his expression.

“It was something I said the day you were buried.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

“What do you mean, _why_? Because you were my **friend**. I had all of these mad, invigorating, mind boggling experiences with you and... and, as you’ve probably worked out in that genius mind of yours, I wasn’t doing so well after the war. You fucked off before I could tell you that you probably stopped me from putting a bullet through my head. You fucked off before I could even try to repay you.”

Sherlock’s expression had shifted from wary, back to blank, until it took on that familiar warm look he knew Sherlock reserved for very few.

“John.”

“No. No, damnit. You made me watch you DIE.”

“Once again, John, you see –“

“I still have my gun.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Don’t –“

“I fell behind the truck –“

“Truck?”

“John, what did you see?”

“I saw you jump off of Bart’s!”

“And then what?”

“And then I ran as fast as I could, got knocked down by a damn bike messenger –“

“Oh, well that explains it.” And there’s something in Sherlock’s eyes that irks John to his core.

“I swear to- Sherlock, this isn’t a fucking _case_. This is you explaining to me how I **didn’t** watch you splatter you BRAIN across a sidewalk.”

“But there was no brain matter on the scene, only blood. The way I fell, I didn’t dive; I had my feet below me and my arms out for balance. And since I knew Moriarty likes his snipers, I figured out the angle for the truck to be parked so they could place the mattress and bring me blood while still driving off quickly enough to assuage the need for proof.”

“Was I supposed to make it to you before the truck moved?’

“Preferably.” But there it was again. That look in Sherlock’s eyes, like something was off. Blinked, and it was gone. “At the very least realize I wasn’t stupid enough to kill myself.”

“Well, sorry to have messed up your neat little plan. Just couldn’t let me in on it before I left the hospital.”

“You stormed out.”

John gaped, but Sherlock just stared resolutely, eye inscrutable.

“YOU LET ME!”

John’s fists were clenched tightly again, his mug a forgotten mess on the floor. He stood up from the couch, shoving a finger towards Sherlock. Certain pieces were fitting together, and there were some thing he did pick up from Sherlock. Most of it was telling John that the pompous ass before him was  _placating_ him. That this was  **Sherlock Holmes**  who had probably planned everything that happened down to the last detail.

“You knew just what to do to make me piss off precisely when you meant me to because you needed me to go with it. You needed me grieving you to keep them off your tail. You probably had the bike messenger planned.’

“I didn’t know you would come back, John.”

“But –“

“But yes, I took precautions in case you got there before it all happened. If you lot didn’t seem like you really thought I was dead and gone, the **assassins** may have taken note. I’ve only just got them all called off. They see you visiting my grave looking distraught and you stay alive. I am sorry it affects you so much.”

“And why should it, right? Sherlock –“

“I’m not a machine, John. I do have emotions. I have a mind that sends out chemicals in response to social stimuli. But I’ve just learned to ignore it for so long due to the banality of the emotions. It was always boredom, intrigue, deduction, boredom. For as long as I can remember, once I got off of the drugs at least. And then I met you and I felt intrigue but I also felt...”

John’s phone chose that moment to ring, and when he saw that it was Mary calling he realized she was probably waiting for him at the tea shop. She would go to her therapy and then they would meet up and she would play therapist for John. He’d tried to refuse, but she’d claimed it helped her to help him and he couldn’t resist her pretty eyes and earnest demeanor. He let it go over to voicemail, but he grabbed up his jacket under the watchful eye of his flat mate.

“I’ve got to go.”

“What?” John spared himself a glance of Sherlock stuttering, feeling a sharp rush of cruel vindication, before he shook his head at himself and went to put on his shoes.

“You should go let Mrs. Hudson know you’re alive.”

“I’ve been to see her,” Sherlock said, voice flat and practically pouting.

“And Mycroft? Have you contacted your brother?”

“Yes.”

John shook his head viciously now. “Always the last to know.”

“ **John** –“

“I’ve got to go. I assume you’ll be here when I get back?”

Sherlock nodded briskly and turned his back on John, walking through the kitchen towards his room.

John tried desperately not to slam the door on his way out, but didn’t succeed.


	2. Rejuvenate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is still not mine. I only do this because I have no other choice.
> 
> Still non-beta'd.
> 
> I meant for this to be two chapters, but it got a bit away from me so I had to split this chapter in two parts. I am currently working on the second part and it should be up soon... stick around for a preview!
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Sorry I’m late,” John rushed out, still huffing a bit from the events of the day and his rush to get to Mary.

“Not a problem; there was a lovely display a few moments ago between a father and his son. See that ice lolly on the ground over there? Apparently it was not at all what the boy wanted.”

Mary was smiling pleasantly, obviously picking up on John’s distress and giving him a moment to settle in and order his tea, contented just to watch the people milling along. But John knew it wouldn’t last; this woman had a way of getting things out of him better than even Harry when they were young.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, Mary glancing at him every once in a while as if assessing his readiness to share what had happened. She knew the look in his eyes and today had definitely been a _bad day_.

Finally, halfway through his cup of tea John couldn’t take the patient concern in her eyes.

“Sherlock is alive.”

Maybe he should’ve waited for her to finish her sip, guilt lacing through him as she started spluttering and choking slightly on the tea.

“Alive?” she gasped out.

John reached over to rub circles on her back, patting randomly, and feeling awkward with her for the first time. A flash of Sherlock’s face as he stuttered incoherently when John announced he was leaving caused him to suck in his breath, but he covered it with concern.

“Sorry to drop that on you, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, just went down the wrong way. I’m fine.” She gently shrugged off his hand, another first for either of them. They hadn’t been intimate yet, had barely exchanged a fluttering kiss, and John had thought it a good thing; taking things slowly, really getting to know one another. But now there was something else between them that wasn’t quite right.

Having gained her composure, Mary straightened her back and held a tension in her shoulders John had only seen her adopt when she was discussing the problems with her sister.

“How is it that a man can jump off the roof of St. Bart’s and turn out to still be alive?’

John shook his head, not desiring to bring Mary into the sordid web Moriarty had weaved all around the consulting detective, his blogger, and those they cared for. He’d probably told her too much as it was. Sherlock said his network had been destroyed, but… John wouldn’t take that risk.

“Sherlock has taken on some very sensitive cases in the past, and one of them caught up with him in a bad way.”

“Moriarty?”

“Quite,” John said tersely. The man’s name would always make venom race through his veins and John hoped Mary didn’t take the grimace on his face personally. “Sherlock needed to protect certain people and apparently had planned just how to do it. It would seem as though being dead for a year helped him take care of the finer details.”

“Oh, John. When did you find out?” Mary had lost some of the curious tension in her shoulders and face, hand reaching out in a now familiar gesture to rest on top of John’s.

“Just now, actually. Not half an hour before I arrived here. It’s why I was late.”

“What?!” John quirked a brow at Mary’s outburst and dumbfounded glare. “Why are you here? Your best friend just came back from the dead, John!” The hand on his went from lightly holding to squeezing tight once before she let go and sat back, arms crossed. “Did you just run out on him?”

“What?” It was John’s turn to squawk, this time loudly enough to draw the attention of a couple across the street. “How do you even know that? Jesus, you’re so much like him sometimes it’s scary.”

“I can read people. Not their lives, but definitely their emotions. And considering how huffy you were when you showed up, it stands to reason you hightailed it away from him in a hurry.”

John sucked in a breath before his jumbled thoughts spilled from him in a rush.

“I don’t even know how to react to this. I wanted him not to be dead so badly, but I saw it happen. Watched his body drop from the roof, saw the blood all over him, the unnatural twist of his body. I only had a moment but I looked for a pulse and it wasn’t there. And then today there he was, standing in front of me. Explaining it all away like it was one of his _neat_ cases all wrapped in a bow.”

“You’re angry.”

“Damn right I am!” John said, slamming a fist onto the tabletop causing the tea in both of their cups to jostle but thankfully neither fell, and the table remained free of tea.

John looked down on at his left hand, clenched tightly but tremor free, on the table in front of him and felt resentment rise anew. What was wrong with him? Shouldn’t he be happy?!

“It’s understandable that you’re upset, John.”

“Is it? Because I’m not quite sure I understand it. This is what I wanted. I wanted him not to be dead.”

“Yes and I’m sure you’re beside yourself with relief. But that doesn’t take away what you experienced; what you saw, how you mourned, visited his grave… It’s more than understand that you’re so shaken by all of this John. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“If he’d just let me know, not made me live for a year with this… but he needed my grief to be real. Needed the… there were dangerous people out to hurt me, to hurt the people Sherlock cares about, and he needed them to believe he was dead. I get it, I do. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch his sodding face in.”

Mary smiled, a small, sad, maybe even jealous smile.

“So then do it. You have a chance to.”

And there it was again, the sickly guilt John felt for daring to be upset at a second chance.

“Hello, John.”

Both Mary and John turned quickly to see Sherlock standing not two feet away from their table. For some reason, John pulled his hand back from underneath Mary’s, feeling the old familiar annoyance at Sherlock’s habitual stalking, but also a great deal of comfort.

“And you must be Mary,” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s gaping mouth and looking at the pretty blonde woman with a calculating gaze.

Mary stuck out her hand and Sherlock only hesitated for a moment before bringing up his own to shake it, the two of them squaring each other up while John just sat on watching bemusedly.

“I’ll be off then,” Mary said, standing quickly and taking a step to give John a peck on the cheek before turning back to Sherlock. “It was nice meeting you, Sherlock. I’m very glad, for John’s sake, that you’re alright.”

“Mary –“

“I’ll see you next week, John,” Mary waved, an encouraging smile on her face that John could only return weakly. Sherlock took her vacated seat and looked at John expectantly, then began glaring as John refused to meet his gaze.

“Told you I’d be back later.”

“Mm, you were taking too long.”

“Back not even an hour and you’re already expecting me to re-conform to your schedule.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffing out a breath before absentmindedly shooing the waitress who’d begun to approach the table. He didn’t come for the tea, then, John thought acerbically.

“If I thought your anger was justified I’d have let you take a swing at me at the cemetery. As it is, I do understand why that was all so hard for you, John.”

“Do you, Sherlock?” John spat, deciding to remain petulant as long as possible. It felt the easiest of the options, considering all of the different ways he wanted to express himself to Sherlock. The combination of a year of bereavement and yearning, and now sudden access to all he’d been wanting, still had him slightly off balance.

“I thought we went over this,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, before he squeezed his eyes shut and took in a slow, deep breath. When he opened his eyes again they had softened, staring straight into John’s. In spite of himself, John felt his muscle relax marginally.

“I understand emotions enough to realize that I cannot, nor would I want to, imagine what I would have felt if the roles had been reversed,” Sherlock spoke softly, reverently; baring that bit of himself that left him most vulnerable. John just stared, mesmerized by the words coming to him in that long-craved voice; the softness in his eyes that John sometimes thought wasn’t shared with others Sherlock cared for but for him alone…

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock announced, standing up quickly, the sharp word and scraping of the chair jolting John out of his trance, “I would rather we brought this conversation back to the flat. I don’t want to do this here.”

“Sorry, do _what_?” John prompted, getting annoyed with how sluggish his brain felt; how his entire person felt. It was as thought he’d been dunked in molasses, or been stuffed into a bubble; something that caused the disconnect of his thoughts from the going-ons of the outside world.

But Sherlock ignored him. Didn’t acknowledge him as he hailed and got into the cab, barely flickered his eyes at John when he didn’t immediately follow. But then there they were in a silent, tension filled cab ride back to the flat and for some reason John began feeling better. _This_ was natural. _This_ was what he’d been missing for a year. He snorted at himself, at just how mad he truly was, and Sherlock’s responding huff of a single laugh confirmed that, once again and so, so thankfully, he was no longer alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next on Rückprall -
> 
> Mrs. Hudson was conspicuous on in her continued absence as they climbed the stairs unbothered, even as they heard the telly on behind her closed door.
> 
> John barely had time to think of how grateful he was for that before Sherlock was spinning him around and pulling him into a crushing embrace.
> 
> “Sher- “
> 
> “I have missed you, John. With more ferocity than I thought myself capable.”
> 
> ......


	3. Renew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this got REALLY porny. I knew there was going to be sex but, geez, either it's because I haven't written forever or it's because these boys are all repressed. But anyways. Yeah. If that isn't your cup of tea, you might want to high tail it outta here.
> 
> Disclaimers in the first chapter.
> 
> Still un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine made in a fit of pique and hormones.
> 
> Um, yeah. So mature audiences only and all of that. Don't blame me if you feel corrupted when this is over. It's only love...

Mrs. Hudson was conspicuous only in her continued absence as they climbed the stairs unbothered, even as they heard the telly on behind her closed door.

John barely had time to think of how grateful he was for that before Sherlock was spinning him around and pulling him into a crushing embrace.

“Sher- “

“I have missed you, John. With more ferocity than I thought myself capable.”

It was those words that broke John fully, but also seemed to knit him right back up, brought him back to himself for the first time since that morning; since that day outside of Bart’s.

“You are a right bastard for leaving me like that,” John snarled, bringing his slackened arms up around Sherlock’s neck from where they’d be resting on his shoulders. The arms tightened reflexively out of shock when he felt Sherlock’s lips brush against his neck. “What are you doing?” he asked, but it came out quiet, almost breathy, before he gathered his wits and pulled away.

“Surely you know,” Sherlock said, the only sign of his current toeing of an unspoken line the slight flush to his cheeks. He started pulling off his scarf, a red one that looked identical to the blue on hanging on the coat rack by the front door of their flat.

Once that layer had been shed he stood there watching John like he was an easily startled animal, skittish and unapproachable. John was busy noticing the stretch of Sherlock’s shirt across new muscles. He hadn’t been lying about the lifting.

And then he took a step towards John.

“Don’t,” was all John said, putting up a hand that landed with a light smack on Sherlock’s chest when the taller man ignored John’s order, bringing a hand up to rest on John’s jaw.

John’s hand was not so much pushing against Sherlock’s chest as it was resting against it, feeling the betraying but oh-so pleasant flush of heat spread through him from where he felt Sherlock’s pulse. It spread up his arms through to his own chest, his heartbeat picking up pace as Sherlock leaned in. But he simply rested his forehead against John’s forehead, eyes half closed for a moment before locking on John’s.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I’ve been going over and over so many things in my mind. Analyzing even the tiniest detail of each and every moments I’ve spent with you. Do you know what I’ve deduced?”

John’s eyes fluttered, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of Sherlock this close. Every puff of breath landing against John’s face, against his lips, and it was making him _want_ in a way that was very familiar, just never for a man. Never for Sherlock. Yet for the first time in too many years it finally felt like the ache in his chest and his thriving libido were in sync and his head swam with the heady sensation of it.

“What’s that?” he asked, eyes blinking owlishly.

But he didn’t give Sherlock a chance to respond, wanting to wipe that smug look of superior knowledge off of his face, wanted to show him something John knew he was far more educated in… wanting so many things; he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s smirk, which fell away immediately when Sherlock responded with a soft pressure that pushed John’s control over its breaking point. John bit Sherlock’s bottom lip and when Sherlock gasped in pleasured surprise John brought his tongue out, running it between the seam of Sherlock’s lips before Sherlock opened his mouth a bit more and brought his tongue out to swirl around John’s. Then he sucked John’s tongue further into his mouth and John let out a long, loud moan.

Sherlock grunted, bringing his hands from the middle of John’s back to his hips, before one of them slid even further, resting lightly on John’s ass.

John responded by running his tongue across the roof of Sherlock’s mouth and grabbing his ass, pulling their hips together as he raised on tip toes, the jolt of it painting stars behind both of their eyes.

They pulled apart an inch or two, gasping for breath, as John repeating the harsh crash of their hips against one another, before turning it into a drawn out grind.

“Is this what you’ve deduced, Sherlock? That I’m so wrapped up in you that there aren’t any boundaries anymore? That I want something I wouldn’t _acknowledge_ wanting before and now that I have it back I’m going to take it without hesitation? Did you feel clever figuring out that I love you so damned much that sometimes I’d think, ‘He’s really dead, he’s gone forever’ and I would forget how to fucking breathe?”

His words are harsh and there are tears in his eyes, but still his hips rock against Sherlock’s. The urgency in them lessens, however, when Sherlock leans in and starts kissing the tears away, pressing what are more caresses than kisses along the curve of John’s cheek, his jaw line, until he lands on the kiss-swollen lips again. He presses more of those soft, fleeting kisses there before the hand on John’s ass comes up to the back of John’s neck, lightly tugging the hair there until John leaned his head back.

Sherlock trailed more kisses along John’s Adam’s apple to the top of his button up. Then he brought his head back up until his mouth was by John’s ear, nose bumping against his temple, a slow breath leaving him and entering John in the form of a chill that zinged down his spine and settled somewhere between his legs.

“I have never cared for someone –“

“Don’t be a coward Sherlock. Say it. Admit it.” The vehemence in John’s voice surprised him, but that pressing **need** was threatening to drown him unless Sherlock was there to offer him a life jacket. Anything, anything to stop this feeling of falling he’s been experiencing since he saw Sherlock drop from Bart’s.

“Well if you already know –“

“No. You need to say it out loud. You need to use words because I almost lost you before either of us could say anything and I won’t let that happen again.”

John pressed a quick bite to Sherlock’s collarbone before coming up and licking one of his cheekbones, hardly knowing where this sudden need to possess this utterly infuriating man before him was coming from. All he knows is that after being deprived of Sherlock’s presence for so long he felt the need to crawl inside of his flat mate, his friend, and his possible soon to be lover, or he might lose his mind.

But still Sherlock refused, swooping down for another kiss, harder, sloppier, teeth clashing and hand scrabbling to open John’s shirt. John finds himself helpless but to follow Sherlock’s lead, his body crying out for skin and skin, and then both of their shirts have been shed Sherlock moves to press their torsos together but John’s hands go between them, working open Sherlock’s trousers.

In the blink of an eye John has his hands down Sherlock’s pants, cock grasped firmly in his hand that was shaking with desire.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock gasped out his mouth, panting harshly as John’s grip on his cock was just _this side_ of too tight.

“I can make you feel so good, Sherlock. Been thinking about this for a long time now. Started off as wondering what other people thought they saw between us, imagined what they thought we were up to behind closed doors. I’ve got quite a few ideas built up in this mundane brain of mine. Can only imagine what you may have thought up,” John babbled, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth as he twisted his wrist and ran his fingers along Sherlock’s cock, thumb rubbing against the head and slit, watching for every small gasp, twitch of lips, thrust of hips, and storing them for later use.

“You have _no idea_ ,” Sherlock growled, push forward until the back of John’s knees hit the couch and he dropped, his hand slipping out of Sherlock’s pants as he landed with an _‘Oof!’_. Sherlock wasted no time and straddled him.

Reaching between the two of them to undo John’s belt, Sherlock made sure to press the heel of his hand into John’s straining erection through the thick denim of his trousers.

John let Sherlock gain momentary control, lost in how very much he liked having Sherlock over and all around him like this. His hands slipped into Sherlock’s loose trousers and slid under his pants as well, grabbing his hips for a quick pull and grind. He allowed Sherlock to pull back for some room to continue working him out of his trousers and pants, until John had to lift up and help push them off, pushing Sherlock’s down as well until they were pressed together with nothing between them, heated dicks brushing their desire against one another in a rush to press as close as possible.

“I never knew I could want something like this,” Sherlock whispered, and John shivered at the sensation, at the words, running his hands up Sherlock’s back reverently.

Sherlock leaned down for a kiss, soft and innocent and fucking breathtaking. When he pulled back his eyes were sparkling and John found himself smiling giddily, a pressure lifted from his chest.

“I never knew a lot of things until I met you,” John said profoundly.

Sherlock leaned forward to press biting kisses onto John’s shoulder, starting a steady rhythm with his hips. John’s hand darted forward and grasped their cocks together, smearing his palm messily over both of their leaking heads before circling them both as well as he could. They both gasped for breath before John stretched his head up and back, clearly asking for a kiss. Sherlock acquiesced, but pulled away far too soon.

“I am the head, you are the heart,” Sherlock whispered before leaning forward, pressing his lips to John’s neck as John sped his hand up. Sherlock placed a hand on top of John’s, pulling back after eliciting a long, needy groan from John, and looked _his_ John in the eye. “He wanted to burn my heart, but I would be lost without my blogger.”

John released a sound that was part groan, part laugh, and part sob. He reached his hand up behind Sherlock’s neck and brought their mouths together, hoping Sherlock understand what he’s trying to convey.

Sherlock brought his other hand to John’s nipple and twisted it, barely allowing John breath for the keening sound he so desperately needed to let out.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m close. So close.”

“Mm.”

And that did it, tipped John headlong into euphoria; he not only heard the deep, rumbling groan, but felt it against his chest, tasted it in his mouth, and he was lost.

Sherlock smiled victoriously, watching John with rapture while continuing his strokes, raking his nails down John’s nipple until John reciprocated the gesture. Sherlock let out a broken groan as his hips stuttered and it was John’s turn to watch Sherlock in the throes of climax.

It was a sight he hoped to see as often as possible for, well, forever, considering he didn’t plan on allowing Sherlock to leave again.

“What?” Sherlock asked, actually looking a bit unsure of himself even as he slumped a bit, and John realized that Sherlock in the afterglow was the most vulnerable Sherlock he had witnessed thus far. Warmth, almost but not quite like arousal, flooded his chest and gut. The knowledge that Sherlock trusted him with this side of himself was never something he would take for granted.

“Just wish we’d, ah, made it to the bed.”

Sherlock smirked down at John before standing up and offering John a hand, and when John noticed him hesitating he lead them towards Sherlock’s room.

They were both still nude, slipping under the covers from both sides only to meet in the middle with a tender press of lips, bodies slotting together as Sherlock lay on his back, John languidly pressing him down into the mattress.

Sherlock spread his legs and John pressed even closer, his dick perking with interest at the position. He had a sudden image of Sherlock’s long left leg thrown over his right shoulder while the other wrapped itself as tightly as possible around John’s waist to deepen John’s thrust… and like that, he was rock hard again, slotting his cock into the cleft of Sherlock’s ass and rocking against him.

They kept that up as Sherlock recovered until both of them had pearls of pre-cum peaking out of their slits.

“Who was that woman you were with today? Are you seeing her?” Sherlock asked, voice husky and as demanding as his hands that were greedily grasping John’s ass, encouraging John closer to where Sherlock most wanted him. “Because if so –“

“What, I won’t be allowed to see her anymore?” John laughed a bit at his own cocky tone but noticed how Sherlock had stilled, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry –“

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Sherlock cut in, rolling his eyes.

John moved away, reaching for the lotion on Sherlock’s nightstand which John was sure had only been used as **lotion** until today, or maybe not, if Sherlock’s enthusiasm was any indicator. This conundrum of a man, splaying himself open for John, would drive him mad ten ways until Tuesday and John wouldn’t have it any other way.

He shook himself from his daydream and reminded himself with Sherlock was looking at him apprehensively, even as he crooked an eyebrow at the lotion, prick twitching.

“Good, because whatever _this_ is, renders everyone else I have been or may have been with null and void.”

With that he fit himself back between Sherlock’s legs, pumping some lotion onto his fingers, spreading it and warming it before bringing them to the cleft of Sherlock’s ass. John rubbed his slick digits against the rim of Sherlock’s hole, thrilling in the way it man the usually so controlled man beneath his shiver.

“Tomorrow, we’ll have to go shopping for some proper lube,” Sherlock gritted out, pushing against John’s teasing finger. If you could get on with it before then…”

“Alright, alright,” John chuckled, dipping down to kiss Sherlock just as his first finger breached the ring of muscle. He wanted to lick out every sound that left Sherlock’s mouth during this, to savor each and every noise.

As John pushed in a second finger, drinking down Sherlock’s soft keening, he had a momentary out of body experience. Here he was, two fingers sunk palm deep in Sherlock’s (perfect, tight, wonderful) ass, and it the only thing that stunned him was how perfectly natural it felt. Like this was where they’d been heading and the year apart only sped up the process once they were in each other’s presence.

“You’re just where you’re meant to be, love. You aren’t to leave again,” John demanded it softly, put emphasis on it through a hard nudge of Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock panted against his lips, nodding fervently.

“Yes, John, alright, enough, please.” Each word sounded forced out on a gasp, a grunt, as John ignored his pleas and added a third finger, both to tease and to make sure he didn’t hurt Sherlock, never wanted Sherlock hurt again.

“Almost there, love,” John murmured, pressing his mouth tightly to Sherlock’s and stabbing his tongue into the brunette’s mouth to the same beat as his fingers. “Condoms?”

Sherlock let out a sound like an angry cat.

“We’re both clean, John. Stop stalling.”

“You are a pushy one,” John teased as he gently disengaged his fingers. He pumped more lotion into his hand, jerked it over his cocked, and then lined up with Sherlock’s entrance. The smile Sherlock was giving him was beatific, and John could only respond in kind.

“When I see something I want, I don’t ask for it. I **take** it,” Sherlock wrapped his right leg around John’s waist and pulled him forward, lifting his ass and John’s head breached him surely, followed inch by inch by the rest of him until he had bottomed out into the silkiest, warmest, tightest, best place he’d ever been.

“ _Sherlock_.” It came out breathless and concerned, the pinched look on Sherlock’s face setting John’s teeth on edge as sharply as the pleasure of it encouraged him only to _thrusttakedeepdeeperrightnow_. Just as John was about to attempt to speak again Sherlock’s face smoothed out, and when he opened his eyes his pupils were blown wide.

“John,” his voice was dripping with sex, but there was a hint of amusement there as well, “you are _amazing_ ; you are **fantastic**.”

John shifted forward a bit, the smirk on Sherlock’s lips and in his eyes melting away to be replaced with fire and wetted lips.

“Oh I’ll show you just how fantastically amazing I am,” John promised.

Sherlock brought his other leg up around John’s hip and John lost it a bit, pulling back and slamming back in hard. When Sherlock moaned, he did it again until they’d established an almost brutal rhythm.

John’s left hand was holding him up as his right gave him leverage from Sherlock’s right hipbone, thumb skating across sweaty skin as he slowly lost his grip.

He slowed his hips and leaned forward to bestow a quick, open mouthed kiss to the area of Sherlock’s lips as he shifted back a bit onto his calves. His dick slid out until only his head was in, and Sherlock looked adorably put out.

John slowly put his hands behind his back until they landed on Sherlock’s ankles. He slid them both slowly over Sherlock’s long, sturdy legs, shifting his hips forward and back in shallow thrusts, until he was tickling his fingers along the inside of Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock fisted the sheets and bit his lip, probably to stop from demanding John fuck him the way he had been, the way Sherlock apparently wants it. Maybe he saw it as a form of punishment or something equally maudlin. John was determined they would both luxuriate in the experience; that it would be something beautiful laced with the promise of a new beginning, not laced in pains best left to rot in the past.

Or maybe John was just being sentimental; either way, he wanted to slow this down.

Bringing Sherlock’s left leg to rest over his right shoulder offered the best angle for what John wanted, and seemed to be pressing him exactly where he wanted to be if the ripple of Sherlock’s muscle and the guttural noise he released were any indication.

“So glad you’re home safe, Sherlock. S’all I wanted, you back where you belong. So glad, I’m so glad,” John babbled, continuing to croon out sweet, joyous nonsense even as he reduced Sherlock to an incoherent mess as he pumped deeper and faster into him.

Just as John placed a hand on Sherlock’s wet, pulsing cock Sherlock shifted his leg down and back around John’s hip as he pulled the army doctor down for a slow, deep kiss, moaning against John’s lips as he took all John had to give, hungrily and gratefully.

“Never leave me again,” John begged tightly in his ear as he felt himself nearing completion, speeding up his fist on Sherlock’s cock.

“I couldn’t John, not now that I **know** you love me,” Sherlock breathed out, licking the shell of John’s ear before tightening and coming with a quiet gasp, face tucked into the crook of John’s neck. And that should have infuriated John, but his body betrayed him.

The damp breath on his skin made John shudder as he grasped Sherlock’s ass in both hands and pushed in as deep as possible before letting go, circling his hips while Sherlock’s insides continued to flutter around him.

Sherlock sank back against the bed and pulled John with him so that John’s ear was resting above Sherlock’s hammering heart. John had enough coherence left in him to gently pull out of Sherlock, pressing a lazy kiss to his chest before pressing his ear back to listen to the reassuring beating.

John watched on sleepily as Sherlock started straining his toes towards to covers bunched at the end of the bed, succeeding in bringing them up to John’s reach.

“We’re gonna regret not cleaning up in the morning,” John said around a yawn, earning a chuckle from Sherlock, who placed a gentle hand on John’s head, carding his fingers soothingly over his scalp.

“A worry we’ll face in the morning, then.”

John rolled his head up to meet Sherlock’s face, heard the way Sherlock’s heartbeat sped back up when their eyes met.

Just as he was about to remind Sherlock he still hadn’t _said it_ , John realized that yeah, actually. He had.

That night they slept pressed close, tacky and sweaty, and for the first time in a year, free of nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN.
> 
> (But okay chances are this is going to turn into a 'verse so if you have any requests for one shots in said hypothetical 'verse then I am all ears.)


End file.
